OLGA GRUSHIN
379
next morning set out for the hill. In the rosy haze of sunrise, from the
same vantage point between the branches, he was unpleasantly startled
to see Andreas slowly wading in water up to his knees, with a big jar of
wine in his hands and a sheepish smile on his face. Like Markos, he van–
ished from sight in the trees and shortly reappeared empty-handed.
Constantine spoke to no one, but over the next week sneaked out to
his observation place several times a day, and slowly grew certain that
something odd was happening in Inos, something that seemed to involve
most of the villagers. He had seen so many walking along the shore,
always bringing a head of cheese or a plate of fruit or a small animal,
always returning without them. Just how well did he know these men,
he asked himself as he sat with them in the taverna, looking from one
bronzed face to another, drinking to their health, and laughing at their
stories. The excitement of the hunt began to wash over him in impatient
waves, and ideas crossed and recrossed in his head, weaving webs of
intricate, frenzied patterns as he treaded deeper into the realm of suspi–
cious possibilities.
Finally he was able to put into words a vague impression that had
haunted him from the very beginning. Though not all that well-traveled,
he had seen enough remote islands with a single fishing village to know
that they were poor, sometimes dismally so. Yet Inos was undoubtedly
prosperous, and the daily ship that came in from neighboring Chios to
collect the morning's catch did not seem explanation enough. No,
another trade, a secret, sinister trade, was transpiring in the deserted
corners of Levkothea. Whatever it was, he was beginning to feel
strangely elated, already imagining his name spread proudly across the
front-page headlines.
ON SUNDAY THE VILLAGERS RETIRED to their dinners earlier than usual.
Having declined several invitations, Constantine stopped by the house
to check his gun. On the way out he paused. Maria was sitting in the
kitchen, her chin cupped in her hand, Hope on her knees, looking at a
framed photograph on the wall in front of her-a soft outline of red
roofs against a sky that was paler and gentler than the sky of Greece.
"Gradara," she said quietly, without turning. "That's where
Domenico was born. He used to say we'd go to Italy together, all three
of us, when he retired ... "
Her long gray hair was stuffed into an untidy bun, and the corners of
her mouth were sharp with sorrow. She could not, she simply could not
be one of
them,
he thought with sudden conviction.
